_Sir B._ I am Sir Bilberry Dibble, knight and baronet, of Dibble Hall, in this county; come to offer myself for your most ancient borough of Steady-town; should I be so happy as to obtain the ultimate zenith of my wish, you, Mr. Cobbler, shall soon find an alteration in the price of good ale; bread shall be but half the rate it stands at now; and above all, your trade shall flourish and your taxes fall; so that the cobbler as well as the prince shall have a glorious opportunity of saddling his spit with a fat sirloin; your right of common shall soon be restored, and without excise, or the doctor’s tithe; pigs, poultry, and plum puddings, shall crown your cupboards all the year. Now give me your vote, friend Crispin, and as you puff your fragrant essence from your stall in merry glee, you heel the shoe, and bless the hour you gave your vote for Dibble. _Cris._ Oh, you fine powdered gentlemen are something like my codling tree last spring. _Sir B._ How’s that, cobbler? _Cris._ It then dealt a wonderful show of blossom, so much that I concluded a rare autumn; but, alas! I was mistaken; I had not so much as a crump. So ’tis with you who are candidates for boroughs, you promise very fair in the spring of your canvass, but in autumn of election, when we should expect the fruit of good works of you, we too often find you worthless, base, and barren. _Sir B._ Nay, Mr. Cobbler, you are too severe in the conclusions; a man of my honour can never deceive you;--Can I, Pander? _Pand._ No, Sir Bilberry. I have known Sir Bilberry from a child, and never knew a dishonest thing of him, upon my honour, friend Crispin. _Cris._ That’s the last lie you told, Friend Pander. Well, Sir Bilberry Dibble, knight and baronet of Dibble-hall, in this county, you are come to ask a vote of a poor cobbler. _Sir B._ I am, friend Crispin, and you may assure yourself that there is not a man in the whole borough I respect so much as yourself, though but a poor cobbler. _Cris._ Indeed!--that’s strange--why you never saw me before. _Sir B._ Oh, that don’t signify! I tell you, friend Crispin, I respect you equal to the mayor himself. _Cris._ That’s kind. Come into my stall and sit down, and let’s have a little chat together; there, that’s hearty; give us your fist. (_Here Dibble takes up his clothes, gets into the cobbler’s stall, and sits down._) _Sir B._ Pshaw! how he stinks. (_aside._) _Cris._ So you love me as well as the lord of the manor himself?--that’s kind, and so we’ll have a glass of gin together. _Sir B._ Oh, no! ’pon honour. _Cris._ Oh, yes; when this is gone, there’s enough at the Three Norfolk Dumplins and Horse Shoe over the way! Come, here’s the North-country cobbler’s health, who refused to mend the shoe of the man that was inimical to his country’s interest. (_drinks._) A glass of as good maximus as e’er tip’t over an exciseman’s tongue. Here, take hold. (_presents it to Dibble._) _Sir B._ Dear, Mr. Cobbler, you must pardon me.